


I have loved the stars too fondly

by lookingforexcalibur



Series: Morgana, Gwen, and Stars [2]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/F, bookshop au, postcards home
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-23
Updated: 2015-12-23
Packaged: 2018-05-08 18:14:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5507849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lookingforexcalibur/pseuds/lookingforexcalibur
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Morgana and Gwen meet in a bookshop in Paris. When Morgana goes home, Gwen promises to write her postcards from every city she visits.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part One: Paris

**Author's Note:**

  * For [QueenofCamelot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenofCamelot/gifts).



> title from 'The Old Astronomer' by Sarah Williams  
> Part One is set in Shakespeare and Company, a real bookshop in Paris. Guests - called tumbleweeds- can stay at the bookshop for as long as they like, as long as they read a book a day, leave a one-page autobiography, and help out in shop once a day. I thought it would be a fitting place for a modern Gwen and Morgana to meet :)

**_day one_ **

“What are you going to write about?” Gwen asked quietly.

“I don’t know. I’ve never really done anything. All I do is _not_ do things.  I don’t sleep, I’m not at university, I never finish any of the shitty poems I start.” Morgana said.

“Write about that, then. Doing nothing is worth its weight in gold.”

“What makes you think that?”

“Well, usually people who think they’re dull and that they’re wasting their life away usually have the best stories to tell. It’s all about _why._ Like, why aren’t you at uni?”

“I worked my arse off my whole life, and by the time I got my uni offers I was sick of it. What are you going to write?”

“I don’t know. I might tell my life through all the books I’ve read. I’ve read a lot of books. I tried to write one a couple of years ago, and I’ve had writer’s block ever since.”

“I never have writer’s block, but I also never don’t have writer’s block, which makes no sense whatsoever. Oh, for the picture, do you want me to take a Polaroid of you?”

“Really? That’d be awesome. And I’ll take yours, if you want.”

“Thanks. I’ve never quite perfected the art of Polaroid selfies.”

 

**_day two_ **

  They had to read a book day. That was one of the very few rules the bookshop had. Gwen found a copy of _Ariel_ , and her and Morgana took turns reading from it. Morgana’s voice was like water, pure and silvery, cutting through the air like steel. They gathered a little audience: customers, who stayed for a poem or two, and other tumbleweeds, who sat, eyes closed, in silent reverence. Whenever Morgana read, Gwen watched her lips form words like raindrops and basked in the green of her eyes.

 

**_day three_ **

Gwen was shelving books in the Fiction section. Morgana was sat on the floor reading _Wuthering Heights._ Gwen had mentioned it at some point when they had met on the train, partly because Morgana reminded her of Cathy. She wasn’t sure why. Perhaps it was the sheer force of her, occupying the air around her not because she wanted to, but because she needed to.

 

**_day four_ **

  Morgana was writing, furiously carving words into the pages of the notebook in her lap. Gwen brought her a cup of tea – no milk, three sugars. She paused, looked up, and smiled. That smile – Gwen was knelt at the altar of humanity and Morgana was her blessing.

“Is this one of the poems you never finish?” Gwen whispered.

“I’m going to finish this one. Tomorrow’s my last day. I have to finish this one. It’s for you.” Morgana replied.

“I couldn’t - ”

“You have to. It’s about you. Meet me outside Notre Dame tomorrow. My train leaves at midnight.”

“Okay. Good luck. With the poem, I mean.”

“Thanks.”

 

**_day five_ **

  Paris was cold at night. Morgana sat on the steps of Notre Dame, scribbling something on the front of the envelope she had sealed her poem in. Gwen sat down next to her, and Morgana handed her the envelope.

“You can’t open till I’m on the train.” Morgana said.

“Why’s that?”

“It’s a secret.”

“Where are you going to go?”

“I’ll stay with a friend in London. Where are you going, when you leave Paris?”

“All over Europe.”

“Send me postcards?”

“Sure.”

“I’ll miss you, Gwen.”

  Morgana pulled her into a tight hug and dropped a kiss on her cheek.

“I have to go,” Morgana said, standing up, “Goodbye, Gwen.”

“Goodbye, Morgana.”

“Don’t forget about me.”

“I won’t. I promise.”


	2. Part Two: Postcards

_**Paris** _

Morgana,

  Things aren’t as bright around here without you. I’m leaving next week, and then I’m off to Berlin. Where are you? I’d give you an address to write to me at, but there wouldn’t be any point. I move quickly. You could write here, but I’ll have left by the time anything gets here. I’ll take pictures, and I’ll come and see you when I’m back in England. I miss you.

Gwen

 

_**Berlin** _

Morgana,

  I’m sat by one of the remains of the Berlin Wall. It emanates freedom, the force of pure humanity. It’s beautiful. You should come here someday.

  I still haven’t read your poem. I feel like if I leave the envelope sealed – I don’t know. I carry it like a talisman. I started writing again because of it. I don’t know where I’m going next. I hope you’re well. And that you’re still writing.

Gwen

 

**_Amsterdam_ **

Morgana,

  Think I might be stoned. I’m not sure. Met a new friend. Not as nice as you. Doesn’t write poetry. Doesn’t like me that much. She might be a prostitute. I didn’t ask. Etiquette.

Gwen

 

**_Prague_ **

Morgana,

  Sorry about the last postcard. Never trust Amsterdam – that place does strange things to your head. I’ve got some gorgeous pictures of Prague. And I got you a little something. I might not ever see you again. You might have moved and forgotten to leave a forwarding address, but I have this feeling that you’re waiting for me.

Gwen

 

 

_**Vienna** _

Morgana,

  I’ve stayed in Vienna the longest. I’ve been here a month, looking for the perfect postcard, buying flowers and pressing them between the pages of a – that part’s a secret. I haven’t done much, though, to say I’ve been here so long. I came here to write, and that’s all I’ve done. I know a lot of people. I’m staying with a friend, and the only condition is that I let him draw me while I’m writing. It’s a funny old world, isn’t it?

Gwen

 

_**Budapest** _

Morgana,

  I spend most of my time in the art galleries here. And then at night I go for walks along the Danube, look up at the stars because they’re the same stars you’re looking at. I draw new constellations and bow to the moon and drink from a hip flask and then in the morning I’m asleep on my cousin’s sofa in an evening gown. I can’t stop writing. It’s like a disease.

Gwen

 

_**Athens** _

Morgana,

  Everything here is old and sings songs of the people who used to live here and who died here. It’s strange to think that people can be so easily forgotten. Who laid the paving stones in Ancient Greece? Who built the houses? Who made the tea? I’m still writing. God, I really miss you.

Gwen

 

**_Rome_ **

Morgana,

  Rome makes me sad. All I can think of is everything we’ve lost. Not just us, but history. How many people fell to legend because this empire collapsed?

Gwen

 

_**Paris** _

  I love you.


	3. Part Three

_**Morgana** _

  Morgana had stopped getting postcards a year and a half ago. The last one had been from Paris - a picture of Van Gogh’s _Starry Night_. She kept it in the copy of _Wuthering Heights_ she had bought in Paris. She was in a bookshop again. Her friend ran the place, and she had been working there since she got back from Paris. And living there. Well, living in the flat above the shop.

  They were expecting a delivery that morning. Debut novel from an English authoress – the critics were raving. Morgana had written enough poems for a lifetime, but none of them were good enough because Gwen hadn’t watched her write them. She kept them in a wooden crate under her bed.

“Morgana!” she heard Elena shout. She raced downstairs to help her shelve the new stock.

“This doesn’t look half bad.” Elena mused, lining an empty table in the middle of the shop with the new books.

  Morgana picked up a stack, and caught the name on the cover: Gwen Leodegrance.

“Everyone thinks it’s an alias. She’s got something to hide, apparently.” Elena said.

“No, that’s her real name. I know her – shit, that’s my Gwen!” Morgana replied.

“Your Gwen?”

  Morgana didn’t say anymore. She read the title, emblazoned in silver across a purple sky. _To Love the Stars._ She opened the book, saw the dedication:

_To Morgana. 51°30_ _′_ _31.27_ _″_ _N 0°7_ _′_ _33.22_ _″_ _W._

“Look at the dedication!” Morgana exclaimed, waving the book in Elena’s direction.

“I’ve seen it. Wait, that’s you? I don’t know any other Morganas, but apparently it’s a popular name for Neo-pagans. Where is that?”

“It’s the coordinates for _A Conversation with Oscar Wilde_. She has them tattooed on her left ankle.”

“Her left – just go, Morgana. Have the day off. Find your strange authoress. Go, go!”

  Elena practically shoved her out of the shop. When she hit fresh air, Morgana started running.

 

_**Gwen** _

  She had sat on that bench every day since she found out that the bookshop whose address Morgana had given her had ordered a load of copies of her book.

“Gwen!” she heard someone shout. She looked around, saw a familiar figure approaching.

“Morgana.” She whispered, jumping to her feet.

“It’s you. It’s really you. When you stopped sending postcards, I thought - ”

  Morgana stood still, gasping for breath.

“I’ve missed you. I was so stupid. I’m sorry.” Gwen said.

“It’s okay.”

“Yes, I suppose it is.”

    Morgana grabbed her by the waist, stepped closer.

“Don’t leave me again.”

“I won’t. I promise.”

  Morgana pressed her lips to Gwen’s and she was like heaven, like a star unfurling its wings at the beginning of everything. They pulled apart, looked each other in the eye, and laughed, because the air tasted like freedom.

“I love you.” Morgana whispered.

“I know.”


End file.
